Give Sorrow Words
by KCS
Summary: Inspired by one of PGF's drabbles in 'Peek Through a Gaslit Window' and posted by permission. In January 1895, Holmes helps Watson through the one-year anniversary of his wife's death, learning about the emotion of grief in the process.
1. Chapter 1

**This idea was inspired by one of my writing partner's recent drabbles, and** _Protector of the Grey Fortress_** encouraged me to write and post it as well.**

**So here's the dedication – to you, PGF, and hope you approve!**

* * *

_Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak  
Whispers to the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break._

_William Shakespeare_

* * *

**January 1895**

It was with a tired sense of excitement that I reached home at last – the Channel crossing had been foggy and the train ride arduous, and I was heartily glad to see the grey and drab buildings of London once again.

This infernal case had taken entirely too much time and energy – and I was rather annoyed that I had spent the last three days in chasing a red herring all the way to Calais and Paris.

And even more annoying still was the fact that Watson had been unable to accompany me on the week-long journey. Before the case had come along he had rashly agreed to volunteer to aid with the treatment of a recent bronchitis epidemic that was sweeping the area round his old practice; he had declined to go on the Continent with me merely due to a shortage of medical help in London.

Bah. As if treating coughing patients were more important than tracking an assasain across France.

I drew my ulster closer about me as the cab clopped along in the direction of Baker Street, for the early January weather was bitter in London. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was after midnight; and I briefly wondered if Watson would still be up, and if not, would he mind my waking him, for I was eager to share the results of the case with him.

I had sorely missed him, more than I would admit to a living soul, even in just the week that I had been gone. Not to mention the fact that I would much have preferred to have _him_ watching my back rather than that half-witted French policeman when I finally cornered the villain in the back room of that cafe.

The frigid air was blowing about the cab, freezing my breath into tiny ice crystals along the flaps and side of the vehicle, and I wished with all my might that my friend would still be up with the fire going, for I was thoroughly chilled by this time.

I was devoutly grateful to see the familiar old façade of the flat in which I had spent the last nine months since my return to London, signifying something that I had finally come to realize I needed desperately, though I would die before admitting it to a living soul – warmth and home and companionship.

No man is an island, so one of my fellow Englishmen has said, and I realized quite some time ago that it was indeed true. A peninsula, perhaps, but not an island.

I hopped out of the cab with alacrity, fumbling with near-numb fingers for the fare and snatching my carpetbag from the floor of the vehicle. The cabbie tipped his hat and drove off, leaving me on the sidewalk.

I glanced up at the windows of the sitting room and was surprised, and a little pleased, to see a flickering orange glow on the blinds – the fire was still going at least. I fumbled with my key, my breath forming a smoky cloud round my head, and then got the door open and stumbled inside.

The hall was dark, and I made sure to not be noisy and waken Mrs. Hudson, leaving my bag outside my bedroom and going straight to the sitting room, opening the door quietly so as not to waken Watson on the floor above if he were asleep.

But he was not, for his back was to me as he stood across the sitting room looking at something he had picked up from his desk.

I felt an impish smile cross my face.

"I say, Watson, are you not at least going to say 'Welcome back'?"

I regretted startling him when he nearly dropped whatever he was holding and whirled round with a cry of near-fright. For a moment his features were a mixture of emotions that I found very puzzling – startlement, yes, but something else – but then a glad smile suffused his face as he saw me standing there in the doorway.

"Holmes! I didn't expect you back so soon," he said, walking over and taking my coat from me.

I was very glad to go over to the fire and attempt to thaw my frozen hands.

"The case wrapped up faster than I had anticipated – and I took very good notes for you, old chap," I added, rubbing my hands to increase friction.

"Was it Waterman?"

"Yes, of course. I was right all along – the diamond dealer clew in Paris was just another decoy. Anything interesting happen in London while I was away?"

"No, not really. Lestrade came by with some robbery case but ended up solving the bit himself when the culprit turned himself in yesterday," Watson replied a trifle boredly, sitting heavily in his chair.

I noticed now that he was in his nightclothes, a dressing gown and slippers completing the ensemble. And now that he was near the flickering firelight, I could see that his face was creased with sleep-lines. He had been asleep – why was he no longer?

"Why are you up so late, my dear fellow? It is nearly one in the morning," I said, watching him carefully, "another patient keep you up?"

"No, no. The epidemic seems to have run itself out for the most part," he replied tiredly.

The fact that he had very neatly sidestepped my question did not elude my notice.

"Is anything wrong?"

"No, why?" His voice was unnaturally sharp, containing a strained edge. I instantly backed away from the subject, not understanding why he was acting in such a manner.

"Nothing, nothing – I was just wondering. I think I shall turn in now," I said slowly, glancing at his drawn features once again.

We exchanged goodnights, and the matter passed from my mind as I prepared for bed. But when I opened the hall door to pick up my carpetbag from the hall, I saw through the open sitting room door that the fire was still going and the gas was still lit, even fifteen minutes after I had left.

I stepped noiselessly into the line of vision and peered into the room. Watson had gone back to his desk and was now sitting at it, his chin in his cupped hand, looking once again at something I could not identify from this far away.

I debated for a moment whether or not to re-enter the room but decided against it. If something was bothering him, he usually told me. Or at least made it easy for me to learn the truth. For some reason he did not want me to press this matter, and I respected his privacy. I would go no further with it.

But that opinion changed two nights later when I had been up all night thinking about a petty little problem that Lestrade had brought to my attention. It should not have presented any difficulties as to its solution but it was proving to be rather more of a puzzle than I had first anticipated.

I realized my pipe had gone out due to a lack of tobacco, and I got up from my bed where I had been sitting, thinking, and crossed into the sitting room. It was dark save for the moonlight streaming in through the windows – it was well upon two or three in the morning by this time.

I had fully stuffed my pipe with tobacco from the Persian slipper when a small sound caused me to pause in the act of lighting it and turn with a start.

And I was surprised, and not a little worried, to see that Watson was asleep on the couch here in the sitting room – without blanket or pillow, almost as if he had just fallen asleep sitting there. I had walked right past his slumbering form on my way out of my bedroom, not seeing him until now.

Watson, as well I knew, was a creature of habit, solid and stolid habit, and such odd behaviour was definitely out of character and a more than a little disconcerting. I stood for a moment looking down at him as he moved restlessly, my mind cogitating possible explanations as to why he had been acting thus.

My gaze fell then upon his desk, and I determined to find out what he had been so intently studying the other evening late into the night. I looked over the visible objects and could find nothing to bear any light upon the matter.

I had a few qualms about going through his drawers, but I decided to do so only in the interest of helping him with whatever was troubling him – for obviously something was. I began to methodically search the desk.

And a moment later, I discovered the reason for his behaviour.

In the first drawer to hand on the right side was a photograph of his late wife – the only one I had ever seen him possess of her. And with the sight of the stark black-and-white reminder of the deceased woman came the realization of the reason for his actions, hitting me in the face like an icy slap of cold water.

It was January.

His wife had died sometime in January, as I vaguely recalled seeing the tiny paragraph of print that Mycroft had directed me to look up in the _Times_ that fateful day last winter. I had been in Egypt when it had happened, and Mycroft's original message after the fact had never reached me, being lost somewhere between Egypt and France, where I ended up a few months later.

In consequence, I had not found out about Mary Morstan Watson's death until three months after the fact. But I did remember it had been in January of last year.

A year ago.

That was probably the reason he was acting strangely – I knew he had been plagued with nightmares upon his return to Baker Street last spring, and I would not be at all surprised to learn that something of the kind was the reason he was spending his nights elsewhere than his own bedroom.

As if to corroborate my suspicions, the moonlight shifted to beam directly upon the couch and I could see his face clearly in the silvery sheen – and it took no great deduction upon my part to perceive that he had been crying at some point; his face still bore the fading signs of tears. And on the floor beside the couch was an empty glass, and our decanter of brandy had been obviously depleted by several ounces.

My heart sank dismally for him, for I knew that there was absolutely nothing I could do to ease the pain he obviously was still feeling. I am the worst possible person to deal with matters of the heart; I cannot fathom my own emotions, much less aid a fellow man in dealing with his. I would not be able to be of any help to my poor friend in aiding him with this obviously still-poignant grief.

Or would I?

My brow furrowed as I shut the drawer upon the picture, deeply disturbed in mind and body over my own inability to help my friend. Surely there was something I could do?

I retrieved a blanket from my room and gently spread it over Watson's restless form, being careful not to awaken him, all thoughts of Lestrade and his petty police problem forgotten in the face of a much more serious and much more important difficulty.

One that deserved my immediate and full attention.

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**To be continued...reviews would be very welcome!**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Watson**_

I awoke with some bewilderment, realizing I was on the couch in the sitting room – that was odd…

Then I remembered the dreadful nightmare I had had the night before. I had come down to get a drink to steady my nerves and perhaps make me sleepy; I must have fallen asleep on the couch.

But what bothered me was the fact that there was now a blanket spread over me and the glass I had been drinking from had been replaced on the sideboard. I am no great detective, but even I could tell that Sherlock Holmes had probably found me there at some point during the night.

Embarrassed, I quickly arose and folded the blanket, deeply ashamed of my own weakness and wishing desperately that Holmes had not seen such a childish display as I had performed last night. A man who had seen more horrors than his share such as I had no excuse for ridiculous scenes like that.

I had just finished this thought when Holmes's bedroom door flew open and my friend burst into the room, fully dressed and pulling on his overcoat. He blew past me to the mantelpiece, stuffed his cigarette case and a magnifying lens into his pocket, and then snatched a coffee cup from the table, pouring himself a brimming drink.

"I must run, Watson – I shall be back sometime," he said, downing the coffee in one gulp and heading for the door without another glance at me.

Part of me was devoutly glad that he did not say a word about the incident of last night, but part of me was a little put out that he obviously did not wish to include me in whatever his plans for the day were.

I heard the front door shut behind him and sat down at the breakfast table where I picked at my food, my mind very definitely elsewhere.

_**Holmes**_

"Sherlock, why the devil did you not just go to the library and look through the newspapers to find out what you wanted to know!"

"Because, brother, I need a little more personal account of the affair than a block of black print will yield me," I replied, returning my brother's glare with an equally testy one.

Mycroft settled back into his chair, finishing off his enormous breakfast with an infuriatingly pokey slowness.

"You are telling me my messages never reached you on the subject?"

"Nothing. I was in Egypt at the time – the first missive I received from you in France was dated February. I found out about his wife's death from an old _Times_ in March."

My brother sighed and drained his coffee cup, offering me a refill which I waved away impatiently.

"It was January 11, Sherlock, today in fact," he told me, "I remember because that was the day the treaty between Britain and – well, anyway, a very important government matter had been resolved that day and it was only that night that I saw the obituary in the _Times_."

"What was it?"

"Pneumonia, I think – there were people dropping right and left in that cold snap we had that holiday season, Sherlock, not just those two. Neither of them were overly strong, and definitely not strong enough to withstand such a bitter winter."

I started, stiffening and feeling my blood run cold.

"Not just – those _two_?"

Mycroft looked at me in some surprise.

"You didn't know?"

"Know what?"

"That they had a child in the fall of '93?"

I stared at him blankly, my mind trying to register that fact with an appalled numbness.

"A child."

"Yes, a little boy. Both mother and child died within a few days of each other in that dreadful cold snap, Sherlock," I heard him say gently as I tried feebly to process this information.

"A son."

"Yes, Sherlock!"

"I had no idea. The article I saw only mentioned his wife – not a child."

"The baby outlived his mother by about a week; his obituary would have been in a later issue," Mycroft said with a gentleness I had only rarely heard before.

Watson, my Watson, had been a father – until his wife and his son had both been stripped away from him in the space of one week. 

And I had not been there for him when it had happened. No one had.

It was of no wonder that he looked half-dead himself when I saw him for the first time upon my return – even now, nine months later, that same haunted look still came over his face when he thought about his wife. Now I realized he was suffering a double loss, not a single. 

No wonder the poor chap was so distraught – today, _today_ was January 11, the one-year anniversary of his wife's death and one week later would be the anniversary of his son's. 

I was utterly unable to comprehend the pain of such a loss, for I had never loved a woman, and I never would in future. And I certainly could not fathom the pain that accompanied the loss of a child. I had no idea what he was feeling like now, no indication whatsoever. How was I to help in any way if I could not empathize?

"Why are you just now wanting particulars, Sherlock?" my brother asked, fixing me with a piercing gaze.

"He has been acting oddly the last few days and I did not know why until last night. But I had no idea as to details, so I came to you, Mycroft," I said mechanically, my mind already engaged upon thinking of what I could do to help.

I stood to leave, my thoughts in a whirl, my brows knitted.

"Sherlock," my brother said as I opened the door of his rooms in Pall Mall.

"Yes?"

"Be gentle, for heaven's sake," he admonished me, his eyes clouding with concern.

"I...I am not quite sure I know how, Mycroft," I replied frankly, knowing that my brother at least would not fault me for my uncertainty.

"It will come to you," he replied, giving me a pointedly warning look, "make sure you listen when it does."

I felt my brow furrow – where was the logic in a statement such as that?

_**Watson**_

I wandered about after breakfast for the better part of the morning, trying to keep my mind off the disturbing thoughts and images that kept returning unbidden from my nightmares last night. I had seen them, seen them both, so very clearly – so clearly that I could see them still every time I closed my eyes to even blink. That awful dream had relived everything in my mind of that horrible week last year.

I, a doctor of medicine, had not been able to save either my wife or my son from the reaches of that virulent strain of pneumonia. I had pulled many patients back from the grave in the grips of that malady, but I had been helpless to save my own family.

Which was why I had, not long after, lost all real interest in practicing the profession that now seemed to be no more than a deadly joke in my own family's lives.

What kind of a doctor was I, that could not even save his own wife and child?

I sat at my desk, resting my head in my hands and listening to the wind whipping round the windows of the sitting room.

My leg was already throbbing from the change in the weather and I had absolutely no desire to go out on such a freezing cold day – but I knew I would have to later. This would be the first time I had done the ritual on the anniversary of Mary's death, and I was not at all looking forward to the event.

I wished desperately that Holmes would come back and deduce what was wrong and offer to come with me – but part of me also rebelled at opening myself up in such a manner to him. He probably would not even welcome the idea of being an emotional confidant for a romantically dramatic imaginer, as he had so often called me.

I sighed and picked up the newspaper, seating myself in my armchair by the fire, for the air was growing decidedly chilly and my thoughts were even colder still.

I was only shallowly immersed in some sensational headlining story when the sitting room door flew open and Sherlock Holmes entered as vehemently as he had left. Tossing his coat in the general vicinity of the coat rack and flinging his hat after it, he strode to the fire with a shiver and began to rub his hands together in its warmth.

"I say, it has to be below freezing out there, Watson!" he gasped, turning round slowly to warm all sides of his thin frame.

I agreed somewhat absently and then snapped myself out of my thoughts – Holmes would notice if ought were amiss with me and I had no wish to become a laboratory rat in a deductive exercise, not this morning at any rate.

"Watson, are you busy today?" he asked, pouring himself a cup of now-tepid coffee. I watched with amusement as he added sugar, stirred it, tasted it, and then nearly splattered it everywhere finally realizing it was cold.

"Ugh!"

"It's cold, Holmes," I said with a smile.

"Brilliant deduction, my dear Doctor – you scintillate this morning. No, really, Watson, are you engaged upon anything of importance or could you help me with something?"

"Yes, of course," I replied, somewhat relieved to have something to occupy my time, "I should be glad to."

"Ha! Capital! Can you be ready to depart in fifteen minutes?" he asked, his eyes sparkling with glee.

"I believe so," I said, scrambling out of my chair and heading for the door.

"Good – I have a cab waiting, so do hurry!" Holmes bellowed after me.

I was very glad indeed for something to occupy my mind for the next however long Holmes took it into his head to traipse round the city, for the excursion would take my mind from my grief and the pain of a still-open wound a year in the making.

I began to change and ready myself with some alacrity, forcing all thoughts of death and my own insufficiency from my mind. Whatever problem Holmes was engaged upon, it was far more important than my petty grief.

**SINCE THE BLASTED LINE THING STILL DOESN'T WORK THIS IS GOING IN INSTEAD...**

**_To be continued..._**


	3. Chapter 3

_**WOOHOO! The lines, they do appear to be working! I hope they stay - if not, use your imagination!**_

* * *

**_Watson_**

"Where are we going, Holmes?"

"The British Museum."

"Are you going to tell me what it is all about or just sit there with that smirk on your face?"

Holmes looked at me out of the corner of his eye and grinned.

"I need to take some notes over some items for a monograph I am contemplating on ancient civilizations and their olden ways of dealing with crime in the villages."

"Oh. Sounds frightfully interesting," I said dryly.

"Perhaps not, but it is necessary. History repeats itself in crime, and -"

"Yes, yes, you've told me often enough. But why do you want me along?"

"Well…"

"Oh, really, Holmes. Can you not take your own notes?"

"Yes, I can – but your handwriting is neater than mine, unlike most atrocious scrawls your professional counterparts are so fond of plastering all over prescription bottles," Holmes replied, glancing at me again with raised eyebrows.

I did not exactly relish the idea of being dragged round the British Museum all day long scribbling notes about antiquity, but it was better than sitting at home wallowing in self-pity.

"Very well. But only if you treat me to lunch," I said, pointing a finger at him in a rather pathetic attempt at my normal sense of humour – I was not feeling very cheery at the moment.

Holmes laughed and handed me a journal he had picked up from my desk and a pencil, which I duly pocketed and then sat back in the cab, my mind reverting back to my deceased wife and baby – how much I missed them, even a full year after the fact!

* * *

_**Holmes**_

For a moment I had been afraid Watson would refuse to come with me, but as usual he fell into step with my plans in that easygoing way of his that makes him such a valuable companion. He fell into a rather morose silence in the cab, however, and I could deduce from his features that his mind had turned back to his absent family.

I pressed my lips together in a thin line, determined to get his mind off death for a little while at least. I had no idea if my conception that work would push anything, even emotion, from the mind was correct; but it was the only thing I knew to use to try and combat a feeling I was entirely unfamiliar with.

I dearly hoped the idea would work.

* * *

_**Watson**_

Despite my efforts to remain in a sour mood, my spirits did lift a little – one could not remain passive in the company of Sherlock Holmes for very long. He was far too brilliant and entertaining a companion to leave one bored.

He had the most annoying but amusing habit of objectively making deductions about anything and everything – some of them very personal and rather embarrassing to the subjects.

And despite my black mood and the grief that still niggled at the back of my senses, I found myself laughing more than once at his ridiculous antics. He appeared almost to be more interested in entertaining me than in discovering information as to his monograph.

But so rare were these occasions when Holmes would forget for a while that he was supposedly an automaton and allow himself to be human that when he did so, I for one was not about to comment on the fact.

"I say, Watson – what do you make of that group over there by the Asian moth exhibit?"

"Holmes, I am _not_ your brother – I cannot play deducing games."

"Yes, you can, I know you can," he replied, nudging me in encouragement. "You are by no means unobservant, Watson."

"Whatever happened to 'you see but do not observe'?" I asked in amusement.

"An isolated incident."

"One that happened several dozen times?"

He chuckled. "Go on, old chap. Try it."

I frowned, focusing on the man and woman walking behind an elderly woman who was holding a toddler.

"Well, it's a young couple."

"A sound opening gambit, Watson."

I laughed. "And I would assume that is the grandmother."

"Also sound." He was teasing me, and I knew it.

"They've been in the museum for a good few hours already."

"Your reasoning."

"The man is carrying their coats – they grew warm walking round. And, the lady is holding one of those very detailed exhibit maps; they were out of them when we entered, and the guide said they had been out since this morning."

"Very good, Watson."

"Umm, the chap is either an artist or a writer."

"An artist. But tell me your reasoning."

"He keeps eyeing certain exhibits and scribbling in a journal rather like mine. Why an artist, not a writer?"

"Because he is using a charcoal drawing pencil to write instead of the normal variety of simple instrument."

"It might have just been the only thing he could find."

"The pencil, but not the special gum eraser that is used to erase sketches. He has both of them as well as a sharpener in his pocket – I saw them a moment ago."

"Ah."

"Well done, Watson. Now. What other inferences can you draw?"

This went on seemingly endlessly until my head began to ache slightly in protest. Holmes found some of the information he was seeking and had me scribble it down for him.

"We are nearly finished here, Watson. How does Pagani's strike you?"

"Much better than the museum café," I replied with a rueful smile, recalling the last time we had eaten here.

"Ugh. I shall never forget that horrid sandwich – I was ill for days."

"Yes, I know – who do you think took care of you while you were such an insufferable bear?" I asked with a smile.

Holmes made a noise of disgust and started plowing his way toward the exit. I followed at a more sedate pace and we entered the street reluctantly, turning our collars up against the chill wind that bit into our faces with a stinging nip.

"My kingdom for a cab!" Holmes gasped as the wind took our breath away, looking round for one without success. "This is the most bitter winter yet!"

"No, you just have not been in London for three years in the wintertime – you have forgotten what it is like," I replied with a smile, my breath crystallizing in the air around us, "didn't they have snow in Tibet?"

"Well, yes – but not bitter wind like this!" my friend replied with a shiver.

Suddenly we saw a cab pull up beside a pub and deposit two passengers, and Holmes took off at a dead run for it, shouting to get the driver's attention before it was commandeered by another freezing passerby.

I could not help but laugh at the completely ridiculous picture he made, sprinting down the icy sidewalk. Then my amusement turned to concern as he slipped on the ice and actually went sprawling into the side of a building.

"Holmes! Are you hurt?" I called anxiously, hurrying after him.

He did not answer and did not move, and I grew even more worried. I reached his side in just a moment and knelt beside him.

"Holmes? Holmes! Are you all right?"

He moaned a little and sat up, rubbing his head gingerly and wincing.

"Yes, yes, I am fine," he sighed, "that confounded ice!"

"Let me see your head –"

"No, no, it's fine. Just knocked the breath out of me for a moment," he replied, looking at me reassuringly.

"Let me see it, Holmes!"

He looked at me in surprise and then after a moment submitted to my examination.

"You do have a lump there," I said worriedly, "are you feeling dizzy, disoriented, nauseous -"

"Watson, for heaven's sake, I am far too numb with cold to feel anything!" he replied, looking at me in fond exasperation.

I took his arm and helped him to stand, carefully watching him for any signs of a concussion. He appeared to be suffering from none, shaking his head as if to clear it and then demonstrating he could walk steadily.

"I suppose the cab got away," he growled, in a thoroughly bad temper now.

"Yes, I believe so," I replied, seeing the street to be devoid of transportation.

Holmes gave a muttered curse and rubbed his head absently.

"Are you sure that you –"

"I am _fine_, Watson – do stop worrying, you're as bad as Mrs. Hudson!" he replied, patting my arm reassuringly as he slipped his own through it and started off down the street again.

I sighed with relief as I was pulled along in step with his long legs. It was only too easy to be injured in weather like this – I had seen many injuries happen and had treated many as a result of ice and sleet in this kind of weather. Not to mention the illnesses that went along with it.

Illnesses like pneumonia.

I shivered, the adrenaline of concern leaving me and bringing back that black cloud that had hung over me earlier in the morning. In my worry over Holmes just now, my wife and child's deaths had been shoved firmly from my mind. Now they were back with a vengeance.

I looked over to see Holmes watching me with an odd expression I could not place, his eyes being the only feature that betrayed his concern.

Could he tell what I had been thinking about? Did he even know about the circumstances?

I tried to quell my shivering and felt his arm tighten in its grip on mine, but he said nothing, only quickening our pace until we turned into a more heavily traversed street and were able to find a cab.

I felt much better once shielded from the wind at least.

"Is anything wrong, Watson? You're not worried about my head still, are you?" I heard him ask.

I glanced at him briefly.

"No, not if you are sure that you are feeling quite well."

"No harm done except to my pride, old fellow," he said with a rueful laugh, "but are you sure there's nothing bothering you?"

I swallowed – did he know? Had he deduced it? Was he giving me an opportunity to tell him everything or was he just extending a mere courtesy because I was acting strangely?

This was a chance I might not have again – but I could not take it. I was afraid to open up for fear I should lose my composure, and in front of a man who _never_ did, to boot. No, that was simply not possible.

"No, there is nothing, Holmes. I am perfectly fine – just a little cold," I said, more firmly than I felt.

I barely registered his worried frown out of the corner of my vision before I turned back to the miserable icy precipitation that had begun to fall upon the chilly London streets.

**_

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To be continued...please review!

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	4. Chapter 4

_**Holmes**_

I had been very gratified indeed to find that Watson appeared to have enjoyed himself at least a little in my company. I had put forth much more of an effort to be entertaining than was natural for me and in consequence was rather on edge the whole time – but it was worth the discomfort to see him smile and even laugh on several occasions in the course of our time spent at the Museum.

But now, as we rattled through the frozen streets, he had once again relapsed into a moody silence. His face had always been an open book to me, and it had not been difficult at all to deduce what his thought processes had been.

At first, worry about my impromptu spill upon the ice; then relief to find me unhurt. His brows had knitted and his gaze became distant, and he glanced across the street to an apothecary's – he had been thinking of all the extra work such weather makes for medical men.

That thought naturally had led to the illness that had robbed him of his family, and now I could tell that was where he was lingering, trying desperately to remain outwardly normal, too proud to let me see the tears I had already perceived in his eyes.

We were at an impasse.

I wanted so badly to help and had no idea how to. He either did not want my help or was too proud to ask. And I could not do anything if he did not tell me what he needed.

I sighed, my face clouding with worry. What was I to do?

Perhaps after a good luncheon and the concert I had planned he might have warmed up enough to tell me how I could help him. If he did not, then there was nothing more I could do.

* * *

_**Watson**_

Holmes was looking at me strangely, and for his sake I endeavoured to put away my dark thoughts and concentrate upon our converse at the little Italian restaurant we were so fond of.

"How is your headache?" I asked, seeing him rub absently at his temples.

"Not bad considering," he replied, finishing off his pasta thoughtfully, his almost jovial manner gone. I began to have a sneaking suspicion at that point.

"Watson," he went on, "I would like to stop by St. Albert's before we head back this afternoon – there is a simply superb violin quartet on the billing. Would you care to come with me?"

I hesitated, remembering that I still needed to perform the necessary duty of going to Mary's grave this afternoon before darkness fell and the cold grew too intense to be out in it.

I saw a look of slight dismay cross his face at my hesitation, and he reverted to old-fashioned pleading with that child-like gaze I never had been able to resist. There would be time enough after the concert; and besides, I just now realized with a pang, I did not relish being alone at a time like this.

"I should be glad to accompany you, Holmes," I replied, draining my glass and setting it back upon the table.

The glee that filled his face was reward enough for having to sit through four violins for a couple of hours – but along with the happiness in his face was something else, something I could not quite place.

Relief?

But in the instant I saw it, he once more dropped that mask across his features that even I could not penetrate unless he allowed it, and he motioned to the waiter for the check.

Our ride to the music hall was rather silent, as our conversations sometimes were; there was nothing unusual in that. And I was more than glad to be left alone with my thoughts as he evidently was with his.

The concert was fair, in my opinion – I was not much on violins, having heard a surfeit of one in particular throughout the years! – but I paid little attention to the music, for I was more than a little surprised to see that Holmes was not leant back in his chair as was his wont when we attended concerts. Usually he was oblivious to everything but the melody, tapping his fingers in time with the music with a dreamy smile upon his face, immersed in the program and completely unaware of his surroundings.

But this time it was almost as if he were not listening at all, his mind elsewhere, his thoughts troubled. Strange, very strange; for his powers of detachment were enormous and usually he could put anything from his mind enough to enjoy a rather good concert as this one was.

He was tapping his fingers on the armrest, but not in time with the music; almost impatiently, as if he were waiting for the thing to be over. Personally I would be rather glad myself, for I was fighting down an icy feeling of dread that only increased as the minutes went by in my anticipation of having to go to my wife's grave.

Why was I so loathe to perform the duty? I had visited Mary's resting place before, twice - once on her birthday and then only a few weeks ago on Christmas Eve – why was I so reluctant to go again? I supposed it was because of the inescapable fact that it had been a whole year since she died, one long year that I would have spent all alone had Sherlock Holmes not returned to England in April.

I glanced over at Holmes as the concert seemed to be drawing to a close and saw his thin lips pressed together, his sharp eyes staring unseeingly at the musicians, and wondered what was on his mind that would be important enough to keep him from enjoying the kind of concert I knew he normally loved.

But he offered no explanation and as was my habit I asked for none, knowing I probably would not receive any even if I did ask. Finally the concert finished, to both our relief I think, and we reluctantly left the warmth of the music hall and were struck by the icy wind outside.

Holmes bellowed for a cab loudly enough that several scandalised passers-by glared in our direction, but I ignored them. I had to go now, or else I should lose my nerve. Once we got back to Baker Street with a cozy fire, I should not venture out again. I had to go now.

"You go on ahead, Holmes, I have some business to take care of," I said a little nervously, turning my collar up against the wind and looking up into the cab at him.

He frowned.

"You cannot walk about in this weather, Watson," he replied, hopping out of the vehicle and giving me a push up into it, "your leg will be in dreadful condition if you tramp about London in an ice storm."

I was too cold to protest, for the cemetery was rather a far walk from where we were right now.

"Tell you what, I shall drop you off wherever you need to go and then head back to Baker Street," he offered suddenly, hopping up beside me.

I opened my mouth to protest vehemently, but then I saw that there was no other visible transportation available in the street. Much as I did not want him knowing where I was going, it was still completely unfair to make him walk in this weather until he could find another cab. I bit back my protest and settled back with a shiver.

Then I stiffened as I heard Holmes give the driver the address without asking me where I was headed.

He knew.

He had to have known all along.

Holmes had told me more than once that I was not very adept at hiding my thoughts and feelings and he could read me easier than one of my own stories – he had to have realised everything, starting from the incident last night. He had to have deduced exactly what was wrong.

But he was saying nothing, and pointedly avoiding looking at me from either discomfort or embarrassment. I swallowed and tried to cogitate something to say but was unable to think of anything that would be appropriate – so I simply followed his example and kept silent.

In a quarter of an hour we had reached the street upon which the cemetery lay and pulled up outside the wrought-iron gates. I gulped nervously and glanced at Holmes. He got out to let me past and then to my dismay got back up into the cab; he must not be comfortable with remaining with me. And I was too proud to plead foolishly to not be left alone.

"Watson, make sure that you do not try to walk back to Baker Street," he said, leaning over the side to call to me.

I nodded, unable to say anything, and turned to look at the dismal location, feeling the chill in my heart as well as my body as the wind whipped up round me, throwing ice particles into my face.

Then I entered the iron gates, alone.

* * *

_**Holmes**_

The look of dismay flashing through Watson's eyes as he realized I was getting back into the cab was enough for me to deduce what he was too proud to say – that he did not want to face these ghosts of the past alone.

So I made my errand as rapid as possible and was in the cab heading back for the cemetery within ten minutes of my leaving it, a small glass vase filled with winter flowers and greenery sitting beside me in the cab. I drummed my fingers nervously on the side of the seat, more than a little uneasy about what I was about to do.

I felt utterly helpless, for I had no idea what to say or do that would make things any better. I had never grieved in such a deep manner as Watson obviously did; his tender heart went far deeper and was capable of far deeper things than I ever should be able to fathom; I had no comprehension of what I might do to offer aid to him.

But I knew I had to try something, for it would be inhuman to leave him alone to face whatever he was feeling and disloyal in the extreme to not at least attempt to aid the dearest friend I had, whether I was capable of doing so successfully or not.

I hopped down out of the cab and asked the driver to wait, not knowing how long we would be. And if we were as long as I suspected we might be, we would both be too frozen to chase down another modicum of transportation in this kind of weather.

I have heard people say that graveyards are rather frightening to them in a spectral sense, but I have never been inclined to any such fancy. The bleak rows of grey stones, dotted with occasional greenery peeping through the swirling ice crystals, did nothing whatsoever to make me uneasy as they did some.

But the figure of my closest friend, kneeling in front of one of the stones with his head bowed, hat in his hand, sent a chill through me that no ghostly apparitions ever would be capable of doing.

I hesitated – should I wait until he were finished and then draw closer, or should I go over to him now and wait to see his reaction? Did he wish to be left alone now that he was there, or would he welcome my approach?

I cursed softly at my own cluelessness and finally decided upon a compromise. I moved quietly to a bench within thirty feet or so of the grave he was visiting, brushed the ice crystals off it with one hand, steadying the small vase in my other, and sat, waiting for him to notice me or make an indication to guide me as to what he needed.

And it was not very long until he did.

* * *

**_To be continued..._**


	5. Chapter 5

_**Holmes**_

I sat there nervously, for how long I did not know for certain. Long enough to become thoroughly chilled at any rate. Finally I saw Watson stand and turn to walk toward me, his head down against the wind.

The bench was sheltered by some evergreens and was not directly in the biting nip of the breeze, for which I was grateful.

Watson did not meet my eyes but sat beside me on the bench, the small vase between us. I could not tell if he were shaking from the cold or if he were crying – but I was going to find out, no matter how uncomfortable it was for me. This was not a time to stick at personal comfort.

I set the vase on the ground and slid across the bench closer to him, weighing in my mind something I could say that was not an empty, trite platitude.

He was shaking far too violently to be merely shivering, and I instinctively put a hand on his shoulder. He flinched at first as if not expecting it and then relaxed, dashing away a few remaining tears, his face flushed either from the cold or from embarrassment. Knowing him, I suspected the latter.

"There is nothing shameful about grief, Watson," I said finally, "you have no need to be embarrassed about showing it, certainly – and especially not to _me_ of all people."

Finally he cleared his throat and turned slightly to look at me.

"Thank you – for coming back," he said a little unsteadily.

"I – I should have stayed in the first place, Watson; I just did not know if you wanted to be alone or not," I replied with uncertainty.

He smiled a little at me. "I am not entirely unaware of your intents for this day, Holmes. It was a very thoughtful gesture to try to get my mind off of things."

I stared at him in some dismay – he had seen through me? How?

Watson chuckled softly and said nothing, the smile fading as his gaze fell back upon the stone a few feet away.

I cleared my throat.

"I – I brought this, I did not know if you – well -" Why the devil was I stammering like a nervous schoolboy?

Watson saw the greens in the vase and smiled once more, tears welling up again in his eyes.

Oh, dear heaven – I did not know what I should do if he started weeping.

But he swallowed and blinked, standing to his feet with me and taking the vase. We began to walk together over to the stone.

"Did you know – the circumstances?" he asked softly.

"Pneumonia, was it not?" I replied gently.

He nodded sadly. "It was a bitter winter – worse than even this weather right now."

"And the ice and cold does not help with the memories, does it."

"No," he whispered, stopping at the stone.

As he settled the vase into the cold ground, pressing it firmly into the packed cold earth so it would not fall over, I gently brushed the snow off the grey stone and saw the small inscription. She really had been so very young.

It was only then that I noticed the smaller stone beside it, half-covered as well in the icy flakes swirling past us. I brushed that one off as well while Watson was arranging the greenery –

And stopped short, my breath catching in my throat.

Mycroft had not told me that.

I was still staring when Watson crouched down beside me, glancing sadly at my face.

"No one – no one told me," I said, my voice more shaky than I would have liked.

"You didn't know?" he asked softly.

I shook my head, my eyes unable to leave the tiny stone and its tiny inscription.

_John Sherlock Watson, aged four months._

_September 15, 1893-January 18, 1894._

"I thought you had been told," I heard him say quietly, standing up from the cold ground.

I followed a little shakily, and not from the cold.

"No," I returned, still looking at the little inscription, "I did not find out until this morning that – that you even _had_ a child, Watson."

I finally turned to meet his gaze, my mind in rather a whirl. He – he had named his child, his first son, after me? Not after his brother, his father, or anyone else – he named the boy after me?

Why?

"Holmes, I'm f-freezing – can we go somewhere to – to talk, perhaps?" he asked hesitantly, and I knew he was not wanting me to have to listen to his emotional outpourings if I were not willing.

Just because I was not given to emotional displays myself did not mean that I would be loathe to listen to another's, especially his, and I said as much to him. He looked at me oddly for a moment.

"Are you wishing I had said that earlier?" I asked ruefully.

"Actually, yes," he replied, dashing away a tear from either the wind or the emotion I could still see struggling for mastery in his face.

"I – I am so sorry," I stammered, feeling like a very low friend indeed.

"Do not be – I was too stubborn to ask," he admitted, hesitantly slipping his arm through mine as we turned to leave.

I bit back a causal agreement, knowing this was not the time for any type of lightheartedness, and we both looked back for one moment. But I knew this would not be the last time we would stand here in this fashion. It was just too bitterly cold to remain here any longer at the moment.

* * *

"There you are," I said, handing Watson a hot drink and seating myself on the settee beside him.

We had made the journey back to Baker Street in silence for the most part, too chilled to speak much, and upon our arrival Watson had hastily coaxed the fire into life and I had made us each a hot toddy and grabbed a couple of afghans, for the fire was not yet doing its job well in warming the room up any.

I sat there beside him as he stared into the fire, not sure of what to say, wishing desperately for Watson's gift of wordplay – as a writer he always seemed to know exactly how to phrase things. I was completely clueless.

Finally he drained the glass and set it on the floor, looking back into the fire for a moment longer.

"It was so cold that winter," he finally said aloud, more to the air than to me in particular, "colder than I had ever seen in England. My surgery was filled with patients from morning til night with bronchitis, pneumonia, and various injuries cause by the cold snap. I was working 12 hours a day to help the people and did not realize Mary was growing ill until she was already well on her way to a fever."

He stopped, staring down at the rug, impatiently dashing away a tear. My heart panged for him – he had probably run himself into the ground during that spell, for I knew his self-sacrificing nature all too well. It would not have been his fault if he had not noticed his wife's illness. Especially since I knew Mary Morstan was an exceptional woman and would have hidden the fact well so as not to worry him.

But he obviously was blaming himself for it.

"I didn't notice until I heard the baby coughing one night as I left my consulting-room around nine – I went straight to the nursery and found them both ill…" here his voice broke and he stopped, scuffing at the rug with the toe of his boot.

"It – it was only four days after that…I didn't even have time to prepare myself," he whispered at last.

"Oh, my dear fellow – I am so sorry," the words came unbidden out of my mouth as I sat there helplessly.

"It was so sudden, so quick – Mary never had been overly strong and that was just too much," he whispered, "if I had not been so wrapped up in my work I might have been able to –"

"Don't say it, for it isn't true, Watson!" I said fiercely, "you are a _doctor_, not a _deity_. By no stretch of the imagination can you front the blame for her death."

He glanced at me sadly before dropping his gaze once more.

"And then – and then I did all I could to save the baby, but it was t-too l-late," his voice cracked again and he finally broke down, putting his head into his hands with a muffled sob and leaving me helplessly watching, wondering what to do.

So I did the only thing I thought might possibly be of any comfort to him – I slid over and put an arm round his trembling shoulders and said nothing, just waited for the grief to run its course.

Which it did after several minutes – the tears ceased but I did not remove my arm as he continued to sit there, shaking slightly. I still said nothing, not knowing what exactly to say, and in a moment he continued without my prompting.

"I do wish you could have seen him, Holmes," he whispered.

"Your son?" I asked softly.

He nodded.

"He was a most inquisitive child – lived up to his name, certainly," he said, glancing at me with a teary smile.

I swallowed hard but was not quite able to return the gesture.

"He was always getting into everything – crawling about even at four months and grabbing anything he could get his little hands on," he went on.

I let him talk for several minutes, knowing that it was a sort of therapy for his grief, and finally he looked at me.

"I hope you do not mind," he said hesitantly.

I started.

"Mind?"

"About naming him after you, Holmes. I – well, I wanted to name him after you and Mary agreed with me, but…well, I did not think I could stand to hear your first name so often round the house as we would be calling the boy, so I made it his middle name instead," he said softly, staring back into the fire and sighing softly.

"My dear chap – I've never been so honored in my life, I promise you that," I said sincerely and speaking from the heart at least for once.

He smiled a little sadly and sat back, his eyes on his hands which were twisting nervously in his lap.

"You – you've been very patient, Holmes," he suddenly said, glancing at the clock.

I was shocked to see that we had been sitting here talking for well over an hour.

"Patience had nothing to do with it, Watson," I said indignantly.

Then, taking a deep breath, carefully choosing my words, I went on.

"I – I am not very good at understanding these things, Watson. I promise you it pains me to see you hurting and I want to help any way I can – but the only thing I am very good at doing is listening, I am afraid."

"That is all I needed, I think," he said softly, glancing at me with a faint smile.

I frowned in thought.

"What is it?"

"Well, I – " I stopped abruptly, not knowing exactly how to phrase my question.

"Go on," he said curiously.

I shifted position so that I was looking directly at him, fidgeting nervously.

"Well, I have never of course been in your situation, Watson," I began.

He nodded, a faint twitch of a smile crossing his face at the very thought of my marrying and having a child.

"And – well – well, I was just wondering," I stopped. Blazes, why could I not phrase a simple question?

"Wondering what, Holmes?"

"What exactly – if you don't mind my asking, Watson –"

"For heaven's sake, Holmes," he said in quiet exasperation.

"I – I am just trying to understand, Watson," I said nervously, "what – what exactly does it feel like?"

He started, staring at me.

"Grief, you mean?"

I nodded. I genuinely wanted to know, for I perhaps might have a better idea of what I could help to combat it in the future – for there were sure to be future days such as this one.

His face darkened and his eyes glimmered slightly in the firelight.

"How would you feel if you suddenly were deprived permanently of your brother, Holmes?" he asked.

I considered for a moment, not without a shudder.

"Very – very lost," I replied, "almost as if – as if –"

"As if a part of _you_ were suddenly missing?"

"Yes," I replied slowly, a tiny realization sparking in my mind.

"You feel empty, Holmes, as if part of you were dead as well – and it stays with you; no matter how hard you try to forget it, it is always there, that empty hole inside you," he said softly. "Multiply that feeling by a hundred and you have the pain that accompanies the loss of a wife and child."

I did not want to even attempt to think about it. I briefly considered what I would feel like if I ever lost Watson – and promptly rejected the thought as being only fit for my nightmares. It was unspeakable.

But that had to be no worse than what he had felt when his family had been taken from him.

"Watson?"

"Yes?"

"Tell me – tell me what I can do to help?" I finally just asked the question – deduction was not going to aid me any further in solving that problem.

"You already have," he whispered, sitting back against the couch with a small sigh.

I felt my forehead wrinkle, but he appeared to be genuinely serious. What had I done, anyway?

That was thought for another day, another evening. For now, I simply tightened my grip on his shoulders and we sat there like that, he occasionally talking and I just listening, watching the crackling flames slowly fill the room with a cheerful glow.

And there was a certain odd warmth in the place that did not originate in the glowing coals.

It certainly was a mystery – one that I should have to solve someday at my leisure. Someday when there was not as important and vital a problem on hand as I had at the moment. The most important case I had yet encountered since my return to London, with the most important of clients.

And apparently he was satisfied with the solution I had blundered my way through. I should endeavor to do better in future, however. Much better.

* * *

**_Finis! Thanks for reading - reviews are greatly appreciated!_**


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